


a nervous tic motion of the head (to the left)

by throats



Series: mics are for singing not swinging [6]
Category: X-Men (Comicverse), X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, M/M, Single Parents, Trans Male Character, Trans Parent Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-26
Updated: 2018-11-26
Packaged: 2019-08-29 12:53:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16744363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/throats/pseuds/throats
Summary: Logan meets Scott Summers twice.





	a nervous tic motion of the head (to the left)

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to [sadie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/monsterjournalism/pseuds/monsterjournalism) for the beta work and for getting just as emo as me about mic verse logan.

If Logan has learned anything in life, it’s that you don’t get do-overs. Life goes on and fucking _on_. There is no backwards walk; only the march onward, the rest of the world oblivious and indifferent.

And yet. _And yet._

He somehow gets a do-over with Scott Summers.

 

* * *

 

Logan first _sees_ Scott Summers one spring afternoon at The Safehouse. Jean and Kurt have been chattering about starting a chapter of _Food Not Bombs_ for as long as Logan’s known them. They’re both dogged peace activists — Logan knows Kurt was kicked out of seminary, once dreamed of being a Jesuit; Jean’s just the same kind of crazy hurry-up-and-save-the-world as Kurt.  

He’s slept with both of them, drawn in by their tenderness like a moth to a flame. It ended the same way most things do for him: his fault, he withdrew, shut down, shut them each out.

Where he’s lucky (so lucky he doesn’t dare name it, avoids it whenever it comes up, walks his thoughts backwards and sideways to avoid, ignore, never look it in the eyes) is that they didn’t give up on him. Didn’t sacrifice their friendships because Logan’s a fuckup with more baggage than a goddamn airport.

He’s sure part of it is that his kid is fucking _spectacular_. Daken’s a ginormous shithead, a prodigy in youth assholery under the tutelage of Quentin Quire’s babysitting, but he’s also just. A _great_ goddamn kid. He loves pranks, animals, and making messy, messy art projects. He has a mohawk. When he was four, all he wanted to do was bite things. He’s awesome.

Everyone loves Logan’s kid.

Logan’s dropping Daken off at The Safehouse the first time he lays eyes on Scott Summers. Dave and Quentin started running a drop in, volunteer-run childcare program after three years of Logan taking advantage of how much Quire loves his son (like calls to like, it would seem) for cheap babysitting, when they started realizing there was a community need for free and low-cost childcare on weeknights in the neighborhood.

Granted, it hadn’t occurred to either of them that most _normal_ people wouldn’t trust their kids with anyone who had pink hair or a face full of metal. But, lo and behold, three years later there’s anywhere between three and seven kids running around The Safehouse Monday, Tuesday, and Thursday afternoons.  

The space is large enough to accommodate two working groups at a time, if not more, so Logan isn’t exactly surprised to see Jean’s shock of red hair or the blue ink of Kurt’s back piece curling up the nape of his neck, bent over a table with a gaggle of other people when he and Daken walk into The Safehouse one fall afternoon.

“Jean! Kurt!” Daken cries, quickly dropping Logan’s hand to spring across the room. He completely ignores Dave’s hello, from where he’s gathered with Cassie Lang, age 7, and Franklin Richards, age 5. Instead, Daken launches himself into Kurt’s legs and roars like a tiger.

“Halp! Halp!” Kurt cries, turning his attention away from his group to Daken. A grin cracks his face in two, white teeth flashing bright against the blue tattoo that continues up his neck to curl around his jaw. “I’ve been attacked! By a…” He looks to Daken. 

“A wolverine!” Daken snarls for affect. 

Logan shoots Dave and the kids an apologetic look and walks across the space to where Kurt and Daken are.

“Hey Logan,” Jean says. Her smile is vibrant. There’s a look in her eye that burns; she’s up to something.

“Afternoon Jeanie.” He nods, tracing his eyes across the table Jean and Kurt have set up. There’s four other people at the table, mostly men. The sole other woman’s white mohawk commands attention, as does her smile. “‘Ro,” Logan adds, smiling back. 

“Logan, it’s wonderful to see you,” Ororo says. “Are you here for the meeting?” 

He blinks, returns his attention to Jean. “Meetin’?” 

It’s Kurt who answers, having untangled from Daken. “You are looking at the inaugural meeting of the Hell’s Kitchen chapter of _Food Not Bombs_ , my friend.” Daken grabs Kurt’s hand and initiates a thumb war.

“You’re serious?” He doesn’t mean for it to come out _so_ incredulous. Jean and Kurt have been talking about starting a chapter for so long, Logan has never considered that one might _actually begin to exist_.

“Of course we are.” This reply comes from one of the new faces. Logan looks up. The guy is _tall_ , has something like a full foot on Logan. The jerk of his head makes something writhe in Logan’s guts. Like this guy — this kid, really, for God’s sake he looks _young —_ knows exactly what the hell Logan means when he asks the question.

He’s tall and skinny with auburn hair, and looking down at Logan through red-tinted glasses. For a moment, Logan reads his judgement as arrogance and thinks he’s looking at Matt Murdock. “Hey, bub—"

“ _Logan_ ,” Jean’s voice cuts clean through whatever Logan’s about to say next. Her eyes flash in each direction. “This is Scott. We went to high school together. Scott, this is Logan.”

Slim reaches across the table, extends a hand. In the moment it takes Logan to decide if he’s going to be a prick and keep his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, he’s already drawn stares from the rest of the group. He shakes Scott’s hand.

His grip is firm; Logan drops his hand and balls his fists in his pockets.

Another one of the new faces titters, _hems,_ and straightens his shoulders. He’s built like a truck, shorter than Scott but taller than Logan. His button-up seems too neat, despite the way it strains around his shoulders. He adjusts his glasses (round, thin wire frames).

Jean rolls her eyes. “And this is Hank—“ Big-Shoulders smiles as Jean continues, “and that’s Warren and Bobby.” She gestures to the two between Hank and Ororo; one’s tall and beautiful in a way that almost feels _inhuman_. His blonde hair is tucked into an artfully messy bun and Logan can _smell_ the money coming off him. It’s in the way he stands, like he’s just a little above everything in front of him. It’s in the fact that he’s wearing navy chinos. The other — Bobby, Logan presumes — waves. There’s a stain that looks suspiciously like spaghetti sauce on his t-shirt. It’s got an ice wizard on it.

Daken grunts. There’s the scowl, the big frown pulling on his mouth. He crosses his arms. _Damnit._ Aren’t kids supposed to go through a shy phase?

“And this, my friends, is Daken.” Kurt comes to the rescue. As soon as his name is mentioned, Daken’s hiding behind Kurt’s legs.

“I thought you were a wolverine,” Hank says, lowering his glasses. His voice takes on the tepid tone that people reserve for small children and cute animals. Logan braces for impact.

“Wolverines can have _names_ ,” Daken snaps back. He sticks out his tongue for good measure. Then lifts his hand.

Logan reaches out and takes Daken’s hand in his before he can display whatever rude gesture he’s learned this week. (Try as Logan might, the only compromise he’s managed to reach with the kid about profanity is _not at school_ and honestly, that’s good enough for him.)

Still, he’s really not in the mood to explain his entire fucking life to the judgement glasses brigade and their rich friend.

“Hey,” Logan warns. Daken looks up at him, close-set eyes full of petulance. “C’mon. Let’s go. I gotta go to work, kid.” He glances back up at the crowd. His eyes land on the safety of Ororo. “And they gotta get their meeting going.”

Daken sighs.

Logan raises an eyebrow. “ _Onegaishimasu_.”

Daken exhales once more, the fight leaving his shoulders as he rolls his eyes. “Fffine.” The word whistles past his missing front tooth. He looks up at Kurt. “See ya.” 

As they walk towards Dave and the rest of the kids, Logan hears one of Jean’s friends whistle. “Jeez Hank, didn’t you know wolverines _could have names_?”

Logan crouches down to say goodbye to his son. Daken’s shoulders curl up. His chin tucks against his chest.

There’s a few peals of laughter, before Scott’s voice, quick and authoritative, “Shut up, Bobby.”

Daken’s cheeks are pink. Anger stokes across the coals in Logan’s belly. He barely manages to press a kiss to the top of Daken’s head before he squirms away to find Quentin. Logan stands up and doesn’t turn towards the group. He pulls a cigar from his pocket and starts to exit The Safehouse.

He pauses. Lights his cigar in the open doorway. Whistles and lifts the smoke in a salute. “Hey Big Guy, just try askin’ a wolverine for its name next time.” He winks at Daken before making his exit. He’s late for work.

 

* * *

 

 

The second time Logan sees Scott Summers, they’re alone.

He’s four beers into the night and nursing his fifth. Logan slips out of The Safehouse with a nod to Dave at the door while Generation X sings their way through their last song of the night. The crowd is getting anxious; there’s a build of energy that’s going to burst as soon as Leatherneck slams onto the stage. And Logan feels wound up in all the wrong ways, his bones itching under his skin. His fingers curl into fists that feel more natural than anything else. The scars on his hands tickle.

Night air hits his face. Putrid smell of the Hudson mingles with gasoline and the hot dog cart two blocks down, the Halaal cart across the street. The sound of music, muted by the brick, distant, almost an echo. Logan shuffles out of the doorway.

He’s tucking the glass bottle in the crook of one elbow to light a cigar, one shoulder leaning against the warehouse, when he notices the guy sitting on the sidewalk. His back is ramrod straight, fitted against the brick of The Safehouse. One knee bent, the other leg spread in a long, straight line across the sidewalk. His head leans back against brick. Red glasses reflect artificial lights in the night. 

For a moment, he doesn’t know if he’s actually looking at something real. He blinks away the booze in his vision, adrenaline kicking in when he doesn’t see movement.

“Hey…” Logan frowns in concern. “You okay, Scott?” Logan pauses. “It _is_ Scott, right?”

“I’m fine,” Scott’s dismissal cuts through the night before he even turns his head. When he does, his visible features furrow. There’s a silence that takes a week off Logan’s life before a line of thin annoyance and recognition curves his mouth down. “You’re... Logan.” Not sure enough to be a statement of fact; too guarded to be a question.

A pause; maybe a space where Logan is supposed to confirm, _yes I’m Logan_. The silence stretches for a beat too long.

“Can you even see outta those things?”

Scott’s still frowning. For a moment, Logan wonders if he does anything else with his face. “More or less.” 

Logan takes a huff of his cigar. “S’that supposed ta mean?”

“That I can more or less see out of my glasses.” Scott turns his head forward, away from Logan. 

Logan chuckles despite himself; he exhales smoke over his shoulder. “You’re a bit of a dick, bub.”

Scott’s mouth quirks up, the corner Logan can see lifts; lines crack down his cheek. White teeth flash in the night. Logan rocks back onto his heels as Scott chuckles, the sound dark in his throat. He listens.

“Don’t call me that,” Scott replies. The laughter fades from his voice, washes from his face, leaving it smooth as river stones.

“A dick?” Logan arches his eyebrow, lifting his cigar to his mouth.

It works; his lips twitch again. The rivets in his cheeks. He shakes his head against the stone. “Are you always this charming?”

 _Worse_ , Logan thinks. Leatherneck’s hungry guitar tone spills out onto the street; prowls between Logan’s legs. A reminder of the pit, just on the other side of the wall. The anger that still tickles the back of his throat, the heels of his palms. He swallows; forcefully takes another drag. Blows the smoke over his shoulder to keep it from swirling in Scott’s face.

“You always dodge questions like this?” 

The frown returns. Scott considers Logan’s snappy retort. Figures it out and replies, “I told you I was fine.”

“And you’re sitting on the sidewalk in the middle of the headliner’s set.” Logan points further down the block, where the bench he’d scavenged years ago sits. “ _And_ there’s a bench right there.”

“Well what are _you_ doing out here then?”

Logan chuckles, dry, brief. Another drag. “See what I mean?”

Scott is quiet for a moment. They listen to the muted sounds of Frank Castle growling, _you’re living a lie, living a lie._  

Then, he’s looking up at Logan, mouth turned up into a smug grimace. “I’ll answer if you will.”

“I asked first.”

“Final offer.”

Logan sighs. It’s not exactly like much of his life is a secret; not to the people who matter. And Scott matters to Jean, enough for Jean to text him and apologize on his behalf, which Jean never fucking does because Jean Grey is Jean Grey and she is a goddamn firebird. And, really. That self-satisfied smile that’s starting to tug across Scott Summers’ mouth, like he thinks he’s caught Logan, is pissing him off. 

“I’m pissed off and a little drunk and I respect the shit outta the work Quentin and Dave do to keep this place runnin’,” Logan says finally. “Not gonna fuck it up because I can’t control myself.” 

Something switches in Scott’s face; softens. A thread of confusion, pulling his brows down behind his glasses. “Can’t control yourself?”

“That’s a different question, bub.” Logan lowers his cigar. “Your turn.”

“It’s complicated,” Scott says. He tilts his head back against the brick and stretches his legs out in front of him. For a moment, Logan’s caught, his attention diverted to the fact that Scott is _tall_ , all bandy limbs that stoke an oft-ignored flame in the bottom of his belly.

Then Scott folds his long limbs up against himself, tucks his knees to his chest and rests his forearms on them. A defensive maneuver if Logan’s ever seen one. 

Logan’s sighing and lowering himself down onto the concrete before he can even think himself out of it. Logan takes a drink from his beer  — the dregs are all backwash, but he drinks it down anyway. “Care to elaborate?”

Scott’s look is so wary it’s textbook. Logan raises his eyebrows. “C’mon. I gave you two sentences. One had an independent clause and everythin’.”

That earns him a snort from Scott. Out of the corner of his eye, Logan thinks he catches the corner of Scott’s mouth flickering up, too, but he ducks his head down behind his arm before Logan can get a good look.

“I was in an accident as a kid,” he says, blunt. Stares down his knees. Or at least, Logan thinks that’s what he’s doing, behind those glasses. The night just dark enough to turn the red a color Logan’s washed out of his clothes more times than he cares to count.

Scott continues, barely moving at all as he speaks: “I hit my head pretty hard and it makes loud noises and bright lights difficult more often than not.”

Logan nods and doesn’t say anything. Knows better than most that words aren’t an adequate salve for any wound. 

(He thinks about being just barely sixteen and already knowing better than to ask the crazy-eyed vet who would leave Logan and Laura bruised apples when he thought they were asleep about the mean-looking scars that decorated his skull.)

Scott’s attention has the heat of a flashbulb, an itchy burn working its way over Logan’s profile. He doesn’t have to look to know when someone’s staring. He busies himself with taking a pull on his cigar and turning his head away to exhale smoke. Gives Scott space to accept that whatever he thinks Logan’s going to say, he won’t. 

“So I’m listening to the show out here. Which is why I said I was fine.” His words are stiff; like they don’t quite fit in his mouth.

Which only makes Logan’s attention return to Scott’s face, trying to find the flaw in that pretty mouth, the crack where those misshapen words came from. 

What he gets for the trouble is the last beats of movement as Scott tilts his head back against the brick. The pale flash of his neck as he moves. The jut of his Adam’s apple striking an old hunger in Logan’s stomach. It’s starving in Chicago in the winter; it’s the disappointment in the mirror in Alberta; it’s a raw kind of want that’s indistinguishable from the other and it lives in the hollow of Logan’s bones, more part of him  than even his marrow.

Logan wants to close his eyes. He doesn’t.

“Mind if I sit with ya then?”

Scott’s glance comes sidelong. The flash of a brown iris from behind the arm of his glasses. Logan devours the look whole. 

“You going to leave if I say no?”

Logan blinks. “Shit, Slim, I’m an asshole but not that kind of asshole.” His cigar burns slowly against his knuckles. “You tell me to scram, I’ll scram.”

Scott’s eyes flick forward. “Okay.”

Logan watches him close his eyes behind his glasses before he finally presses his cigar down into the cement and does the same.

 


End file.
